Exclusive extract from Still Life With Husband (Vintage) by Lauren Fox.
“Nobody’s staring at me!” I say again. “What are you talking about?” But then I see him, the young, dark-haired man sitting alone across the room. He is unshaven in a sexy, can’t-be-bothered way (but also potentially in an unemployed way); he’s stuck a pencil behind one ear, and a thick book lays open in front of him. Surprisingly, he is staring at me. There’s no doubt about it. I look away and my hand darts automatically to my mouth. I wipe non-existent crumbs from my lips. “Is there something hanging off my face?” I whisper. “A booger?” I rub my nose surreptitiously.
“No, Em!” Meg stage-whispers back. “He’s staring at you because you’re a babe!” In fact, I get the ones who are interested in faces with “character.” I’ve been described as dramatic-looking, striking, interesting, and once, “Venezuelan.” I have a mop of shoulder-length curly brown hair that is often more frizz than ringlets, dark brown eyes and a large nose with a bump on the bridge. I get the ones who want exotic-lite. I get the ones who, for whatever reason, don’t want Meg.
As I glance back at the mystery man, he flashes a shy smile and turns back to his book.
“He’s blushing,” Meg says. “You’re making him blush!”
In spite of myself, I’m loving this. I have no qualms about harmless flirting, and I would never do anything beyond it. If a situation like this, which is rare for me to begin with, progressed past smiling and blushing and a little small talk, I’d cut it off. I think about Kevin and what would humiliate or embarrass him if he knew about it. In the unspoken code of ethics of our marriage, that’s as far as I would go. I presume Kevin behaves the same way, and I don’t mind. After all, he lives in the world, too. I’m glad that we’re both young, that we can attract attention. It makes us more attractive to each other. Not long ago I idly mentioned to Kevin that a guy at the library had asked me out. We were in the middle of cooking dinner. Suddenly, Kevin was all over me. “What did he look like?” he asked, pressing himself against me from behind, nuzzling my neck while I chopped carrots. “What did he say to you?” He ran his hands up and down my sides, reached around for my breasts. Is it some alpha-ape thing? The idea must flip a primal switch in a man: if other apes want my female, then I am the prize-winning baboon. For my part, I think about Kevin’s young female coworkers, how they must nurse terrible crushes on their shy, handsome young colleague, and it excites me, too. After all, they don’t get to have him; I do. Maybe that makes me some kind of territorial monkey, too.
Meg takes things a half step further than I do, but that’s it. She, for example, would accept a man’s phone number if he gave it to her. But she wouldn’t call him. Steve is the most mature of us all; utterly devoted to Meg, he pays no attention to the writhing world of human sexuality that still breathes around him. It’s as if it disappeared when he met her. I can understand that, actually. But it’s boring.
“I’m going to get a refill,” I say, grabbing my cup. “Want anything?” Meg is working on her second muffin. She shakes her head and winks at me. ‘Did you just wink at me?” I ask. Meg is laughing as I walk up to the counter.
I wait in line as surly-girl takes her time with another order. After a few minutes, I sense someone behind me, a rustle of clothes, soft breathing. I know it’s him, and my palms actually begin to sweat. He clears his throat and I turn around.
“Hey,” he says, meeting my eye for a second and then looking down. He’s adorable up close, darker than he looked from across the room, and a little bit younger: no older than twenty-eight.
“Hey,” I answer. It’s all I can think to say.
“I, um, I’ve seen you here before.” This is awkward and, at the same time, it feels scripted. But I haven’t acted this part in a long time. ‘I come here some mornings,” he continues, “for a break from work.”
“Oh. What do you do?” I’m trying to act interested but not too eager, cute and mature, but not too mature, all at the same time. But it’s taking up all my energy, diverting the blood flow from my brain.
“I’m a writer,” he says, loosening up. “I’m a reporter for The Weekly. Have you heard of it?”
“Of course I have. I read it all the time.” Right, this is how you do it.
His face lights up. “I write the ‘Local Beat’ column, and I write the cover story about once every two months or so, and I fill in as features editor.”
“Well, that’s … So you’re … ” I’m trying to picture the byline underneath his column, but I can’t. The truth is, I only occasionally glance at the paper. We pick it up mostly for movie listings.
“David,” he says. “Keller.” He offers me his hand and I have to shake it, which ruins my advantage, because my palms are still sweaty.
“Emily Ross,” I say, sounding more formal than I mean to. “Actually, I’m a writer, too.” He’s staring at me now as if I’m telling him I just won the Pulitzer and, in my spare time, have worked up the cure for cancer. “But freelance. For magazines. Women’s magazines.” Oddly enough, although this fact embarrasses me, it seems to impress him.
“Wow, that’s a hard market to break into, I’ve heard. Which ones do you write for?” We’re like old friends now. Except that we’ve just met, we’re having an incredibly awkward conversation, and if I weren’t married, I’d want to sleep with him. I mean, I do want to sleep with him, or at least kiss him, but I am married. It’s the strangest thing.
Book Group Questions
Could Emily and Kevin have reached a compromise concerning the different life-styles they wanted or do those differences signal the end of the relationship anyway?
Emily is bored with the ‘sameness’ of her relationship with Kevin — is this another sign their marriage was doomed or is it true that all long term relationships become predictable and dull?
Is sex with someone new really the answer to Emily’s dissatisfaction?
We know that despite everything, she still loves Kevin — do you think they could try to start anew?
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